


Eggs and Bacon

by Mad_Max



Series: Les 400 Coups [3]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bad Puns, Gen, bacon costumes, boiled eggs, gratuitous use of the name narcissus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 21:40:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Max/pseuds/Mad_Max
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why young Grantaire has been chosen, of his many siblings, by his Uncle Fulbert to accompany the aforementioned to a costume contest dressed as "eggs and bacon" remains a mystery to the both of them. </p><p>A formative moment in the relationship of Uncle and Heir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eggs and Bacon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/gifts).



> Grantaire's name is actually Nicolas, not Narcissus. In my other Fulbert fic, Grand R, Fulbert continues to apply this nickname to his nephew, so I guess it just stuck.
> 
> This was just a bit of crack on tumblr that I am tranferring onto here.

The child had been crying for the past half hour, and Fulbert was beginning to lose his patience.

“There, there,” he boomed in English, waving for effect. Large, tear-filled blue eyes met his, lower lip puffed out and wavering. “Nothing to cry about, lad!”

They would never win the first prize with a splotchy-cheeked, sniffling boiled egg. Entirely unappetising. Wrinkling his nose, Fulbert told him as much.

“Don’t care.”

“ _Oho_! Well, you had better care. Do you know what the first prize is?”

Rubbing his nose with the back of a pudgy, little hand (quite a feat, considering the girth of the egg costume), the boy frowned and shook his head.

“Hmph,” said Fulbert , and it would be an outright lie to say that he did not look entirely pleased with himself. “You shall have to stop your weeping, then, and see if you find out. If we win, I shall let you have a look at the first prize.”

“If we win,” sniffed the boy, “don’t I get my own first prize?”

Fulbert considered. In all actuality, he had not expected his nephew, at six, to possess of enough reason to expect compensation for the act of accompanying him and playing the prop boiled egg to his side of bacon. Weren’t children always playing dress-up? Without being paid for it? He shared these thoughts with the child (his name name? - N-something? - Narcissus?- it was fitting), who began to cry anew.

“Fine, fine!” The fiacre drew to a halt. Swearing profusely, Fulbert only just managed to wrangle the bacon costume through the narrow doorway without bending it in half, his shins grating against the leg holes in the _papier-maché_ monstrosity (the last time he would so much as consider attending one of these things dressed as something edible, he swore); he held out his arms for the red-cheeked Narcissus (?), who flapped his hands, Fulbert could not help but think, much in the manner of a dying bird flapping its wings as it is carried in from the back garden between the jaws of the cook’s cat.

“As we were, young Narcissus - “ he began.

“What,” said the boy.

“Narcissus,” repeated Fulbert, wrinkling his brow. He took the child’s hand in his own, paid the driver, and began to drag. “Narcissus - a flower. A hunter of Thespiae - and I should say, my brother’s wit astounds me. Narcissus, my little thespian, I hope, for you, that you are just as talented at standing still and looking delicious as you are at sobbing, or our chances of winning the first prize shall be slim.”

Narcissus, struggling to keep up, regarded him with baleful eyes. “Do I get a first prize, or not?”

“Do you like liquorice?”

“No.”

“ _No_ ,” mimicked Fulbert in falsetto. “Well, what _do_ you like?”

Jamming his forefinger into his mouth, the boy stumbled along in silence for a moment. They were nearing the front steps to the grand hall now.

“Well?” he prompted.

Narcissus, his complexion evening again to a paler pink, removed the finger from his mouth and said softly, “ _Saucisson_.”

“Sausage,” repeated Fulbert incredulously.

A nod.

“If we win the first prize, I am to buy you a cured sausage.”

Another.

“And this shall satisfy you.”

“We haven’t had dinner,” said Narcissus. His eyes hardened momentarily, and Fulbert, fearing another crying fit, swept him up the stairs.

They regarded one another for a moment, the boy tucked deeply into his eggshell, Fulbert bristling against the confines of his bacon suit.

At length, Fulbert, straightening the sit of his top hat, said quickly, “If you can promise not to cry or wander too close to a reflecting pool until we have won the first prize, my boy, you shall have your _saucisson_ and five francs.” He watched with satisfaction the change this wrought over the child’s face, the eyes widening, mouth falling slack.

  
With a final sniff, the boy nodded, tightened his grip on the tip of Fulbert’s index finger, and allowed himself to be lead into the entrance hall.


End file.
